BBCSH 'Musicality'
by tigersilver
Summary: Sherlock the violin.


BBCSH 'Musicality'

Author: tigersilver

Pairing: Sherlock/John

WC: 800

Rating: G

Warnings/Summary: Sherlock, the violin.

I am strung to the tune of John Watson.

Please, I am not a fanciful man. I abhor the waste of it, expressing oneself via gratuitous nonsense when fact is right there, available. But yes, it appears so.

There's a clear history of this phenomena. It begins at St. Bart's. He cocked his chin, cleared his throat in that way he does and offered me the use of his mobile. Effectually, that was the 'G' string. Lowest note, the one that lays deep under the rest in a way, the one I pluck and fondle the most often when thinking. I am not a fanciful man, no, but he pinned that string to my forehead and wound it right round my cock as if that appendage of mine were a bloody tuning knob. And I, his instrument.

I was already done for. Didn't know at the time—wasn't thinking—though I was naturally wary. John's a man to be wary of, really. 'Queen and country'; the way in which he tightens his jaw and sets his back teeth, the ready rock to the balls of his feet. Ready to go off at the slightest signal, John is. And he—pardon, I have to laugh—calls _me_ volatile!

It's at the café he affixes the second string. Quick darting half-questions and vacuous remarks, they were. Stirring ideas within me that were long buried; adding a catalyst to a formerly calm regeant. That was 'E' and my spine became the soul post, telegraphing the vibration of every slightest 'ahem', every eyebrow lift, every curl of lip, cough and glance. I'm not one given over to carelessly lusting or wishful thinking but all I wanted desperately, for a moment there only, was his gentle, hard mouth on my neck. Anywhere on my neck but particularly just under my ear. Just there.

Ah. Well. Forgive me. Moving on, it went like this. There was that horrible cabbie, you see. And John, he carved F-holes into my person with a single bullet's trajectory. One shot, one clean shot and I was duly pierced and shaped out. Given _voice_, if you'll allow me to continue this metaphor. And I spoke of him, not knowing—and I ask myself often: how is it I didn't realize, instantly?—going on and on about marksmanship and military training and purpose and all that blather to Lestrade, _not knowing_…and then there he was. A stone's throw away, beyond the tape, but only simply waiting. Patiently awaiting _me_, having surgically created a conduit of communication between us already. Having sutured up the incisions in my psyche methodically and having stood vigilantly over them as they healed. All this and I didn't _know_, wasn't paying proper_ attention_, was utterly _missing_ by a mile everything he'd done. To me.

For me.

I attempted to string the third myself. 'Friend', you know, it's a weighty word. I seldom use it. I have little use for it, though more now than ever before. Failed the first time I tried, naturally; not so adept at this social contortion lark unless I practice. That was 'A'. I suppose I was scrambling just a bit, casting about for equanimity. John would somehow seem to lay a quieting, silencing palm across my two lonely strings, soothing them; I liked it. Wanted it to continue. So…yes. I did attempt.

It was Dartmoor. The village picuresque and John was trotting away, clearly angry, and had just basically told me to sod off. I couldn't bear that. I was jangling, atonal, and it simply had to be corrected. That time it took, my self-absorbed restringing. A bit violent, perhaps, a bit not good, but. _Successful_.

I believe. There was The Woman. I think he believed me smitten. I was merely at rest. Sentiment, you know. Waiting for that final string, that light bulb to incandesce.

'A' was the last. It strung from my hand to his hand and back again. So thin yet tensile; never to snap, never to fray. All down my aching itchy body as I stood there, balanced with toes pointed streetward. It's a long way down, don't you know? Longer still if one's barely assimilated being 'up'. Being high and tight-taut and singing. And I _was _singing, humming quietly to myself all that long, long while, awaiting events. He—John—may've thought I brooding. May've concluded it or fancied he deduced it, but. Only Molly got it right, spot on.

It's a sad song, mine. Sad and glorious. There's the Work and there's the Purpose and there's the Song of Solomon, underlying all that. A firmament, a froth of notes in excelsior. My passion, kindled. And I, if nothing else, am forever tuned to the amazing, extraordinary being that is 'John Watson'. Wouldn't, couldn't, have it any other way.


End file.
